Someday
by LithiumKiss
Summary: They were machines that took orders, carried them out, indifferent to those things humans called "emotions" "compassion" "empathy" and "mercy". What were they? Who decided their definitions at this point in time? Slight USCan, GerIta, FrUK.


**AN: This is an attempt at exploring a serious side to Hetalia, and what better time to set it in than WWII? **

**I know this probably isn't extremely accurate history-wise, though I did follow the time line for the America and Canada parts - Pearl Harbour, Iwo Jima and Hiroshima + Nagasaki - it certainly wouldn't have made sense if those things weren't correct. **

**This was originally going to be purely about America and Canada but there is Germany and Italy in there plus some other little pieces to do with other characters. I couldn't resist. **

**Australia**** is mentioned in there - I named him Jarrod (I have no idea why, I just like that name and it sounds real larrikin sometimes haha XD) and another state Lyndal - fifty points and three gold stars to whoever knows which state Lyndal would be in regards to WWII. **

**This fic follows no particular time line, as in, the America and Canada bits are in order of events, but Italy and Germany are on another time line. Sorry if that makes no sense, but I think you'll figure it out. **

**The characters may be a little OOC, and for that I'm sorry. **

**There were many songs that inspired me with this, and the lyrics that I believe helped me the most are in there somewhere. The two that inspired me the most (they actually gave me the idea) are Someday by Celtic Woman and Restless Heart Syndrome by Greenday. 21st Century Breakdown happens to be a great album, very powerful. And if you haven't read 21st Century Breakdown by Canadino, I command that you do, because it is a wonderful fic based on the songs from the album. Set in WWII, too. Quite accurate, well written, fantastic, brilliant. Just go read, ok?**

**So, in order of appearance, the songs are:**

**_Never Too Late - Three Days Grace_**

**_Goodbye For Now - P.O.D_**

**_Breath - Breaking Benjamin_**

**_Hello - Evanescence_**

**_For The Heart I Once Had - Nightwish_**

**_Jack Nimble - Angus Stone_**

**_We're All To Blame - Sum 41_**

**_Someday - Celtic Woman_**

**And strangely enough, there are no lyrics from Restless Heart Syndrome =/ And strangely enough, I'm quite chipper considering the nature of this fic. I guess I just...I'm a little proud, considering the issues in this fic - I think in some parts I may be taking things too lightly, but I went into the characters and the events and some opinions about the events at the times as much as I could without getting too out of hand. **

**So after that completely pointless AN, I will state my claim that I don't own Hetalia - if I did...well, some things wouldn't be so vague XD:**

**...**

* * *

**The world we knew won't come back. The time we've lost, can't get back. The life we had won't beat us again...**

* * *

_I had heard what had happened, even before he came home. Arthur had been furious - he called and yelled at me, his voice distorted by distance, wiring, electricity and choked back tears. I can still remember Papa's voice, in the background, telling him to calm down; it would not do him any good to over-exert himself after such a trying time. Arthur had simply screamed back at him and I had to hold the phone away from my ear. You're the one who should be lying down, you fucking git! Look what happened to you! I could hear his anguish, and from that day on I knew Arthur was just as prone to becoming vulnerable just like the rest of us, no matter how much older he was, no matter how much he'd seen over his life time. Papa had managed to pry the phone from Arthur and told me that he would be alright; all three of them would be alright. _

_Do not worry yourself, Mathieu, mon cher. _

_Of course, I had shown more than my worth during those horrific years of the Second World War. I fought the battles that I needed to, thought I needed to, and Alfred had told me, I was scary as shit. Thank goodness you have me as an ally then, I had said to him, as to make light of the rather heavy and evil situation we found ourselves in. I meant nothing else by it. His face became serious, his whole demeanor darkened, his eyes lost their heroic sparkle. I will need you, Matty. _

_And need me he did. _

_I wondered why I fought. Why I put myself, and above all, other people, through unnecessary pain and suffering. I had killed when I had never even once considered pulling the trigger on another living being. _

_I had a horse once, a beautiful chestnut mare. Her name was Prospect, and she broke her leg when she tried to clear a log as she cantered down a steep, grassy hill. I hadn't the heart to put her down, to end her suffering. I remembered my tumult, after I'd killed another man, and wondered why it was so easy to end his life, to cock my gun and shoot without a trace of feeling, yet I couldn't do the right thing and put an end my poor girl's pain. It was the same weapon, and just like the scales of justice, it had two sides and I had chosen to tilt towards the damnable for the sake of war. _

_For whom was I fighting for? I had asked myself over and over again once the war had ended. Who did I kill another human being, made of flesh and blood just like me, for? Was it for me, for myself, to prove I was a nation just like Arthur and Francis? Was it for Alfred? Was it because I mistook his stupidity for bravery and heroism and wanted to be just like him?_

_I didn't know, and it's still unknown to me now. _

_I said goodbye and Papa hung up. My heart shuddered and I hastily slammed the receiver down. They hadn't said a word in the end; they'd tried but hysteria caught up with them and in the end I was left to deduce what had happened myself - I refused to listen to the radio with it's crackling half truths - let the citizens be lied to. Let them have the hope that tomorrow would be a better day. Let them hope that they have at least a chance of surviving; that their loved ones on the battlefield won't get shot today, or the next day. _

_A bomb, a bomb! people had been saying on the streets, some with hushed whispers, some with frantic shouts. It was all I needed to know. The rest was just there, as if it had been put together before anything had even occurred. _

_It was true that there was more, there had been atrocities committed before and they were more than likely still occurring at the time, but I knew that particular day was one I would never forget._

* * *

**When will we sing a new song, a new song?**

* * *

Matthew looked up from the newspaper he had been reading when Alfred limped into the room. He dropped the paper, unfolded, and got up out of his chair to lend his brother his arm.

"Don't worry 'bout it, Matt. You have your own issues," the American said tiredly. Matthew shook his head and insisted it was alright. He was barely injured. Alfred agreed, but again insisted that he needn't worry. Matthew helped him into his favourite spot on the lounge, right in front of the television, where he could still look outside from the window beside the cabinet.

"Wanna watch something? There might be something good on, eh."

Alfred shook his head, eyes downcast. "All there is is news. I don't need to see what's going on. I already know."

The Canadian smiled sadly and went into the kitchen to make breakfast. "We don't have much left. Would you like some toast?"

"With loads'o jelly?"

"Of course."

It had been three years and about a month since Pearl Harbour. Alfred had not been in battle an hour before getting targeted. He was shot in the leg, the knee and one bullet barely missed his spleen. He had refused to talk about it, only that he'd met a cute nurse by the name of Celia and would have married her if he was human. You would have died if you were human, Matthew told him. Alfred recalled a gold band around her finger but he maintained it was on her right hand. He didn't talk after that.

Matthew brought the plate of toast with loads'o jelly and gave it to his brother. He poked him on the shoulder and told him he was getting fat. Alfred laughed sarcastically and rolled a piece of toast into a bread-y cylinder and shoved the whole thing into his mouth. A comfortable silence settled over them; the only thing that could be heard was the crunching as Alfred chewed and the gulp as he swallowed.

"Remember when Arthur made us have those scones he made and he gave us some jelly with them?"

"And he scowled at us when we called it that. He insisted it was called jam." Matthew laughed fondly at the memory.

"And we thought it would make it better so we loaded it on, and then we found out Arthur had made it especially to go with the scones." Alfred's laugh wasn't as heart-felt as Matthew's.

"Ew."

"...I'm going to Iwo Jima," Alfred said quietly, rather suddenly, as if it was just a passing comment, his voice ghosting beneath Matthew's dying laughter.

"What? No, Alfred." Matthew argued once he'd let what his brother had just said sink in. He sat down beside Alfred and shook his head, hands placed firmly on his arm. "You can barely walk."

"Excuse me, but I think I can. That Japan needs to be shown that he can't fuck with me. I won't let my men go alone - I won't give up until every one of 'em is dead." Alfred finished his last piece of toast, munching on it with a tight jaw and anger in his eyes. Matthew shook his head again, more to himself this time, and got to his feet.

"Enough is enough, Alfred. It has to stop but it won't if you keep going."

"Sit down, Matthew, come on. They have something planned - it won't be safe 'til every last Jap is gone from that island."

Matthew did not sit down. Instead, he walked to the door and opened it, letting the cool winter air blow into the house. "Kiku won't be there, Al. He would know what to expect from you."

"So you're saying I'm predictable? And this has nothing to do with fucking Kiku." Alfred was bitter, defensive, and Matthew knew he wasn't likely to back down, but he could at least try for his brother's sake.

"It has everything to do with fucking Kiku." He pointedly ignored his brother's question.

"He got Australia, too, Matt. _Jarrod,_ Matt. That kid had nothing to defend himself with. What'll happen if I don't go?"

Matthew walked out, ignoring Alfred's protests. He started to run away, down the streets, taking no note of his surroundings, the people and their voices. It was freezing cold, but he didn't care. He wanted Francis, Arthur, anybody. He wanted others to see his reason and not Alfred's. It was true Kiku had attacked Jarrod and his little sister, Lyndal (Darwin), but that had absolutely nothing to do with it. They were his cousins, yes, but that's not why Alfred wanted to go to Iwo Jima. He wanted to prove himself stronger than the bare hour he'd had at Pearl Harbour.

Matthew ran until his legs could run no further. He came to a rough, shaky halt and doubled over, hands on his knees as he drew ragged, heavy breaths into his lungs. He wanted to cry, but instead he emitted a string of angry French curses under his breath. At that moment, he hated and feared his brother more than anything else the war had brought. He did not have to be the hero all the time. He seemed pretty damn intent on playing the villain this time round, though.

* * *

**I'm going all the way, get away please...**

**You take the breath right out me, you left a hole where my heart should be...**

* * *

The blond-haired, blue-eyed model of perfection that was Germany awoke abruptly from his already restless sleep by a light scratching at his door. He groaned slightly, feeling dead rather than tired, and lifted the blankets from his body and climbed out of bed.

Of course, there was Italy, trembling from the cold, eyes glassy with unshed tears. Another nightmare, probably. Ludwig couldn't have cared less. He couldn't care much about anything anymore - everything to do with Feliciano was a nightmare. It was fine that he was an ally, but what had he done?

"Can I sleep with you?" He whispered, so softly Ludwig almost didn't hear. It was different from his silly tears of overreaction and insecurities about Ludwig leaving him. He was afraid. the German could feel his heartbeat through his skin as they shared a rare embrace. Not rare because Ludwig never wanted to, like the old times. Rare because it would have them both thrown in behind barbed wire and cold concrete for incineration just like every other innocent person.

"I don't know what to do. Help me." Ludwig was uncertain of whether those words had come from Feliciano or whether the words were bouncing around too loudly inside his mind. With the expectant look in those cinnamon, un-Aryan eyes, Ludwig managed to realise Feliciano was the one who had voiced them.

He hated seeing him like this. He said he hated the other side - the bouncy, overbearing, loving and bright side - all the time, before this time. Now...now he would do anything to get it back. He hated seeing him so truly, desperately sad, clinging to him, hoping for an answer that they both knew he couldn't give. It would have been easier had he surrendered to the Allies instead of dragging himself behind Ludwig all the time. He was tired, frightened and lifeless. He was a walking, breathing machine that took orders, carried them out, indifferent to those things humans called "emotions" "compassion" "empathy" and "mercy".

What were they? Who decided their definitions at this point in time?

Ludwig let his body drop back onto his bed, and he drifted between unconsciousness and being wide awake; the haze and darkness in between made him feel ill. Gentle hands stroked his back, not close enough through the fabric, and he continued to avoid the plead for help. With great difficulty, mind; each touch, lingering or brief, pressing or gliding, reminded him that no amount of ignorance, praying or hoping would make something just go away.

And suddenly, he felt lips on his neck and he rolled over, pulling the unsuspecting Italian onto him (or did he know Ludwig would react like that?).

"They're outside, you idiot," Ludwig whispered with as much feeling as he could muster. He never whispered, never had to. "They know why you're here. Can't you just leave me alone? Don't you know you'll be safer if you stayed away?"

Feliciano shook his head vehemently and pressed his hands to the sides of Ludwig's face. "I can't," was all he could say. Ludwig pried his hands away and pushed Feliciano off so he landed on the space beside him.

"I can't," Ludwig mimicked, though without humour or question. He couldn't, either. "Go home, Feliciano." He climbed off his bed once more and went to the sink, turning the faucet so the water was rushing out at full force. He was sweating despite the cold, and his skin was burning. They were burning his people again. His people were burning his people. I can't breathe, Italy.

"I am home."

Ludwig cleared the floor space between his sink and his bed in a matter of seconds and had Feliciano pinned against the wall, fingers ripping the fabric of his uniform. His breathing was heavy, rage giving strength to the muscles that had otherwise gone on strike.

"Go away, leave me alone! Hear me when I say I don't want you. Go home." Is it so hard for you to stay _and_ be gone?

Feliciano grit his teeth, his breaths coming out as frightened hisses. Tears ran from his eyes but he made no noise. Did he not know he was poisonous? Ludwig could not touch him. He made life worth the hardships (though many of those for Ludwig were caused by the very same Italian), the betrayal and pain - he was humanity in its most natural, unabashed form. Ludwig could not touch him - they would both be ruined.

The German dropped Feliciano to the ground and turned his back. There were slow footsteps, the creaking hinges of his door, opening and then closing.

War guilt, reparations, the Ruhr, Stresemann. Was all of it so bad? In comparison to what was happening just outside his room...promises had been made, fulfilled, but for the price of terror. A mere slip of paper, a vote, and it was done. It was over.

Morning came sooner than Ludwig anticipated. He was so empty that he had no time to refuse the Heil, and he worked mechanically for the rest of the day. He put on his blank face, tucked whatever shred of humanity he had inside him away from sight and knowledge and soldiered on. Left, right. Target locked, in sight. Shoot. Left, right...

* * *

**Don't try to fix me, I'm not broken.**

**Hello, I am the lie living for you so you can hide, don't cry...**

**Suddenly I know I'm not sleeping; hello, I'm still here, all that's left of yesterday...**

* * *

"I never thought they day would come where I would see you there in front of me, as my shield, to save me, _Angleterre_." Francis said quietly.

Arthur could say nothing in reply. He needed a cup of tea. Perhaps a scotch afterwards. He turned to Francis who had his chin resting on his clasped hands, eyes one million miles away from where they were.

Definitely the scotch afterwards.

"We're allies," Arthur eventually replied, his voice weak. "Why would I let them take you? I'm not as heartless as you think."

Francis chuckled humourlessly. "_Ils ne passeront pas_," he muttered. "The victorious words that allowed us to survive their Plan to take Paris. Where did their truth go this time?"

"They're cast from hell fire, Francis. No poor sod can stand up to their will, not even you or your great army." A hint of sarcasm. Silence; only the clink of china on china. "Why were we so fucking blind, Francis? Why did we let this happen? If we had just opened our eyes..."

A pair of gentle, yet firm hands on his shoulders was the only indication that Francis had moved. He allowed himself to be pulled back into the other nation, but only for a few seconds. He wasn't the one that needed support or comfort.

"We made a mistake, Angleterre." Francis' beard tickled against his jaw and Arthur had to turn his head, away from him.

"No! Mistakes are small, insignificant things; trip-ups on the way. They do not result in _this_." The Briton shrugged the other's hands from him as he turned to face him. "What we did was not a mistake. We were arrogant; we ignored what was really going on because we were too wrapped up in ourselves, trying to rebuild what we had before, just to have it torn down again. There isn't one bloody word in any language to describe what happened."

Francis pulled him into a tight embrace. Let him have his way, Arthur thought with bitter affection as he fisted the clothing covering his chest. "I almost lost you. Do you know what it felt like when I received news that your country had become occupied? You fell and I laughed. I fucking laughed, because I thought, no, that couldn't be right. Why would that bloody frog let that happen? You're mine, you fool. My enemy! Mine to fight with, mine to disagree with, mine to hate. Why had you let it happen?"

A soothing hand stroked the back of his head. Before he could help himself, he let out a dry sob and then the tears came. "I don't fucking cry, especially _not_ for you."

"I know, _mon cher_. I know."

The two settled down for the evening, a word barely passed between them. Silently they agreed to always be enemies, but only if England could be France's absolute worst and France, England's. Nobody else, human or nation, could take that place from them.

In the very late hours of the night - or was it very early hours of the morning? - Arthur listened to his radio, Francis close by his side, barely awake, and heard the news of Little Boy. The ocean of emotions within him was so deep, the floor so dark it was invisible, so cold it was unbearable, that he was numb. The gentle squeeze on his hand was merely a distant call that could be mistaken as a change in tidal current.

Arthur immediately went to the phone and dialed furiously, hoping that he would reach the right number. He deserved _at least _that much.

Matthew. Matthew would know, wouldn't he?

_"Matthew Williams here."_

"Matthew! Matthew, where is Alfred? Have you seen him? Did you speak to him at all?" he could hear the Canadian trying to answer as he berated him with his frantic questions, but all of a sudden, he had no desire to know what Matthew knew, if he knew anything at all. "Stupid, stupid boy," Arthur muttered. He had to put a hand to his mouth to prevent the angry onslaught that threatened to barrel out. God only knew Matthew didn't need to hear it.

"Arthur, please." Francis went to him and held his hands out in a pleading gesture. "Leave the poor boy. Come, lie down and calm yourself for a moment. You need to rest after such a trying time." Those blue eyes had a glint in them, looked a lot like begging, which only riled Arthur up more.

"You're the one who should be lying down, you fucking git!" He pulled his arm back furiously, away from Francis' reaching hand. "Look what happened to you!" The old wounds, the scars, everything had reopened. Seeing Francis on the ground, pale; he looked so small, so ill. Could you blame me for hating you more for making me see you like that?

And now this. No amount of praying or good will could reverse what had happened.

There was no struggle when Francis took hold of his arm and then the phone. He couldn't bring himself to say anything else anyway. He listened to Francis speak to Matthew in gentle French, and it was enough to soothe him into tiredness. Arthur wondered whether he was really physically tired anymore, or whether it was something else entirely.

Francis hung up the phone and turned back to him, a empathetic look on his face.

"What?"

"Go to bed, mon cher. Matthew hasn't communicated with Alfred since he went to Iwo Jima - go and rest."

"Don't tell me what to do," Arthur growled unconvincingly. There was no chance in hell that he would be able to close his eyes and relax enough to even try and sleep. "There are things that need to be done - Germany's long defeated and Russia's dancing on the dictator's grave. The world needs to be put back up on its feet."

There was a loud knock on the door that caused Arthur to jump, his heart to pound furiously. "Bloody hell. Why don't you go to bed and rest for a while, hm? It would make me feel a bit better if I knew you were resting."

Francis opened his mouth to argue but seemed to think better of it and bade Arthur good night, though the sky outside was blue and gold with the approaching morning sun.

Whoever was at the door knocked again, more profusely, and Arthur called out that he was coming, stupid prat, and managed to stumble to the door. He was still in shock, the news sinking in more now that the atmosphere had calmed slightly. He opened the door and almost keeled over at the sight.

"Hey Artie."

Why do you have that smirk on your face? Why aren't your eyes downcast in shame? Why don't you care?

Arthur leaned against the door for support, breathing ragged.

"I did it," Alfred said shakily. "I ended it."

Before he could comprehend what he was doing, Arthur lunged at his former charge, gripped the collar of his bomber jacket and whirled him around until his back collided into the wall, unconcerned about hurting him.

"Stupid, stupid, idiotic boy," Arthur hissed, angry, hurt. He still had it in that head of his that he had done the world a favour. That he was some sort of fucking hero.

Arthur felt sick to his stomach. He was disappointed, incredulous, but somewhere inside there was painful relief. But above all, he felt pity. He'd witnessed Alfred do a lot of foolish, ugly things over the years but this...

It would leave a large, permanent scar that would never fade. Arthur had a few of those himself, but he wondered just how badly this would mark Alfred. In all his years of living, there was no weapon, no army that was that powerful or devastating.

They stared into one another's faces; no words needed to be exchanged between them. Arthur knew this would hit Alfred soon enough - and he would suffer, even though it wouldn't change a single thing or make him understand.

"I'm taking you back home. I need to take care of urgent matters. Can't have you here right now, Alfred."

Surprisingly, Francis stayed away, yet Arthur knew he'd heard everything. And surprisingly, Alfred didn't resist. He would need the comfort of his own bed. He would need his brother, too. Poor Matthew was better at being sympathetic. Poor Matthew would know what to do.

* * *

**Time will not heal a dead boy's scars, time will kill...**

**For the heart I'll never have, for the child forever gone. **

**The music flows because it longs for the heart I once had... **

* * *

Feliciano stared into the eyes that were the same as his. His hand held on tighter to the soothing one pressed against his chest, feeling his heart beat brokenly beneath his uniform, his ribs.

"I want you to sign it, _fratello_. I can't."

"No. We're both signing it, we both have to - you can't hide behind me all the time, you know?" Lovino's voice was angry, yet softly so. His older brother knew why he didn't want to sign the document, which made Feliciano ashamed.

"Let him go, Veneziano. We have to do what's right for our country and for ourselves. That bastard would have us both killed because we're not like him. We're not what his boss wants, and you're not what he wants."

Feliciano turned his head away and bit his lip, already crying. It wasn't true. Not true at all! Ludwig loved him. He loved Ludwig, more than anything else.

Ludwig wouldn't hurt us, fratello. He loves...

"Hey." Lovino took hold of his shoulders and shook him slightly. "Look here for a minute. Listen to me," he lowered his voice and leaned in closely, "everything will be alright. I won't let you get hurt. Look at me, Feliciano."

The younger of the two looked at his brother, the gentle expression on his usually sour face making his sobs worse.

"You're better than this, aren't you? We'll walk away from this without further damage being done to us and it will be easier to heal." Lovino pulled him into a tight embrace and Feliciano promised that he would put his brother first from now on. He knew Lovino didn't believe him, but he would try his hardest.

Ludwig was the enemy now.

In front of the other Allies, before their burning gazes and satisfied smirks (Feliciano had envisioned their faces, those looks, in his mind - he didn't actually look up to confirm his thoughts), the Vargas twins signed their names, effectively breaking the chains connecting them to Germany. For the time being, they were safe, they were no longer in the path of unrelenting, undiscriminating warfare.

Feliciano had never been betrayed before, and he couldn't recall ever betraying anybody in return. Was that why it hurt so much? Because he'd never betrayed before? Because he was turning his back and running away from somebody he cared about who needed help? Who needed him?

Lovino placed his hand over Feliciano's trembling one, helping him let go of the pen. Once they'd left the building, he took his hand and led him back home.

"It's for the best, Feliciano. Remember that. Know how lucky you are that the Allies didn't turn their backs on us."

Feliciano certainly didn't feel lucky.

In celebration, they ate what little pasta they had left and Lovino decided that he would go to bed early and enjoy his well-earned rest. They hadn't had a siesta for a long time, and they'd been drained for so long. Feliciano, however, couldn't bring himself to close his eyes and let himself be dragged off by the comforting darkness of sleep. Instead, when he was sure his brother was sound asleep; he threw the blankets off his legs and quickly got dressed and ran from the house. It was a dangerous mission, but his soul was crying out for another's.

He crept past the SS officers, past civilians and managed not to disturb the guard dogs. He found Ludwig's house - even in the dark without any lights to guide his way, he knew exactly where it was - he frantically knocked on his door.

"Ludwig, it's me. Please wake up, I need to see you. Please, please, please..." Out of nowhere, the tears (anticipation, fear, love) came.

There was a quiet click and the door knob rattled slightly as it was turned. Ludwig stood at the door, his skin pale, his expression impenetrable. Feliciano's heart lurched nervously. He felt sick, he wanted relief so badly.

"What do you want, _Italien_?" His voice was monotonous. His stare actually started to unsettle him.

"It's Feliciano, remember?" His voice became shaky, almost desperate. "You call me Feliciano."

"Go home."

"N-no! No, wait, please!" Ludwig slammed the door in his face. The noise caused him to flinch, but he did not leave. He dared not leave. He was unable to help but cry, his sobs louder, harder, making his chest hurt. He slammed his open palms against the wood of the door again and again, with as much force as he could muster. "Please, Ludwig! I don't want you to hate me! _Ti amo_..." He clawed and scratched and pounded at the door until his nails chipped and broke, until his fingers bled and his skin bruised. "_Ti amo_! _I-Ich liebe_--!"

He was suddenly pulled back and thrown on the ground. In the dark he could only make out a dark shape in front of him which made him cower. Whatever it was, was so much larger than he was. A heavy boot landed on his stomach, the grooved soles digging into him painfully. There was the click of a gun being loaded, and his heart beat wildly, like a cornered, tortured animal.

Clouds moved away from the moon, and it's waxing glow illuminated his attacker. Silver hair was striking against the ink sky, and a deathly crimson stare bore into him. The gun was pointed at his face, the arm holding it angled so the red band baring the swastika glared at him.

"You heard West. Go home."

"P-Preussen! Gilbert, please. Tell Ludwig--"

"Shut up. You're a worthless little piece of shit and a shameful ally." Gilbert spat on the ground beside his head. "You hurt my little _bruder_, _Italien_. Nobody gets away with that."

Feliciano cried out in agony when a bullet from Gilbert's gun penetrated his shoulder.

"Put your gun away, Gilbert."

The Prussian turned his leering face to meet Ludwig's own tired one. The German put his hand on his brother's arm and Gilbert understood. He muttered something angrily in their shared language and put the weapon back in it's place on his belt. He stepped off Feliciano's chest and went to Ludwig's side. The Italian curled up on his side, hiding his injured shoulder.

"I don't get it, West. We were betrayed by him. Boss wouldn't like that you're being so merciful."

"You would have shot him in the head if you had no mercy, East."

Gilbert huffed. "You're always putting him first. What about family? What about me?" His eyes were meaningful and Feliciano recognised that look all too well. A broken hiccough escaped him and he managed to get up on to his knees. His shoulder was bleeding heavily and he felt faint. When he tried to get to his feet, a pair of strong arms caught him as he struggled, and he let himself be held for a moment before muttering that he had to go.

"I'll fix your shoulder first," Ludwig said sternly and carried him inside. Gilbert shouted at him angrily before turning on his heel and leaving. Feliciano couldn't help but tense, fear running cold through his veins.

"He won't tell anybody you're here."

Ludwig lowered him onto his bed and looked for a medical kit. In the distance there was the _whistle-BOOM_ of bombs being dropped. How close were they? When would it end. Tears cascaded down his cheeks, and he wished Ludwig would wipe them away and tell him that he loved him and it would be alright. He did no such thing. He worked quickly and efficiently, and ignored every word the Italian said to him. He didn't once acknowledge one of the many apologies Feliciano gave. He looked so sick, so pale and so gaunt. Feliciano became more frightened than he had been since the war began.

Ludwig was by his side when the war began.

"Don't come here again," Ludwig told him when he'd finished applying the bandage.

Together they walked to his door and Feliciano wrapped his arms around his shoulders, hugging him as tightly as he could, despite the screaming protests of his wound. He leaned up and kissed Ludwig's mouth, again and again, yet he was rewarded with no response. When he pulled back, he looked into those steely blue eyes, and he could have sworn there was something there. He knew there used to be love there once. He was sure of it.

"Don't forget me," Feliciano pleaded. Ludwig simply pushed him outside, though with a familiar gentleness. In a twisted way, it gave Feliciano hope. Perhaps Ludwig didn't hate him after all. He touched his shoulder and winced, vowing he would not let Lovino see. Not that he could do anything about it. He just wanted to spare Ludwig from another degree of hate.

* * *

**Jack be nimble, Jack be quick; Jack jumped right over the candlestick**

**To a flame he jumped at a name called Hell**

**The devil's child drank blood; he's always well...**

**---We were young... we were young...**

* * *

At the end of summer, and it wasn't as warm as Matthew remembered. He was half way between being too hot and too cold; shivers ran down his spine and beads of sweat sat on his forehead. He made himself a cup of tea, poured some maple syrup into it and sat with the steaming mug in between his palms. He watched the window intently and did not move, not once. Not even a twitch.

Eventually his tea went cold. He didn't really want it anyway.

A car pulled up outside of his house and he stood immediately and went to the front door, opening it and waiting there expectantly. Arthur climbed out of the car first and motioned for whoever it was in the front seat to hop out as well.

"Matthew, I'm sorry about all this. But it's come to an end now - nobody can fight anymore." He placed his hand on his shoulder in a fatherly manner, which Matthew accepted gratefully. Alfred walked up to them, slowly, attentively, as if he was unsure and nervous about their presence.

"Al! Thank fuck you're safe!" The Canadian hugged Alfred to him and ran a hand through his hair, comforting him, telling him he was alright. He was home, and there he would stay. He could be nothing but kind at that moment - he knew the rest would come later.

"I'll leave you two now. I expect I shall be seeing you both in the near future, once this bloody mess 's been sorted."

Matthew waved him off whilst Alfred went inside and went straight to his room. Matthew let him; it was mid-morning, and he suspected his brother hadn't slept all night.

As he pottered about, doing small chores here and there, the inevitable questions started spiraling around inside his head. Why did Alfred think what he'd done was a good idea. Arthur had contacted him a second time and announced that he would bring Alfred back; he was unable to deal with him. He recalled that the American had been self-assured about what had happened - that he'd done the whole world a favour. Matthew could hardly begin to take that as the truth, but that was Alfred - his mistakes weren't visible to him immediately. What he did was right by his standards - he was the hero; he knows what's best.

Damn him.

Once upon a time, Alfred had been Matthew's hero. He was older (not by much, of course), he was adventurous, and he always vowed to protect Matthew no matter what. As they grew older, his adventures (misadventures, more like) had become more serious, dangerous, and had consequences that Alfred refused to face. What he did was right, damn it! How could he have been wrong?

Quite easily - he was headstrong and too stupid to take his foot out when he'd meddled enough already. Alfred was infamous for keeping on going.

And what had happened earlier was the prime example of such behaviour. He had to make sure his work was done, that the world knew Alfred F. Jones was not a coward, and would fight for justice and crush the villains and wrong-doers.

His actions had cost him the respect of many - especially Matthew. He had wished time and time again, that he could be more like his brother. Would I do anything so horrific, so shameful? So scarring?

Would I?

The night approached faster than Matthew had anticipated, and after spending all day in bed, Alfred finally emerged, his eyes empty, his face pale, as though he'd just been sick.

"Matty, listen to me."

"Already am, Al." Matthew sat down and motioned for Alfred to sit beside him.

"I can't say sorry for what I did, can I?"

His endless blue eyes were so piteous, Matthew just wanted to say yes. Yes, say sorry and you'll be forgiven. But it wasn't so simple. "No, not this time."

"I knew everything - I knew what would happen and I laughed about it. Ha-ha, they'd get what's coming to 'em. Fuck, I don't know. I don't, Matty - I can't even see the reason why it happened anymore. Every Jap was killed at Iwo Jima - I saw the last one die. It should have ended there. It shouldn't have even started there."

Words akin to 'I told you' circulated inside Matthew's head. He wanted to place a comforting arm around Alfred, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He...really didn't want to touch his brother.

"It was so... devastatingly huge, Matt. Fuck!" Alfred grit his teeth and ran curled, claw-like fingers through his hair. "Why the fuck can't I take it back? Shit. I'm so scared. Everything's so fucked up now, Matty."

His voice cracked and he cried; he cried so hard that Matthew was shaken by every sob that wracked his brother's body. He leaned over and buried his face into Matthew's clothes, tears soaking the material, and the Canadian found the strength to put his arms around him.

"I'm sorry, alright? I'm so fucking sorry!"

Matthew felt his heart sink low into his stomach. He knew he would be hated for this. He knew he would be haunted by this for a long, long time. Was it wrong that he wanted to take it all back for his brother? He didn't deserve quick relief so he could stand back up on his two feet as though nothing had happened, though. Matthew wouldn't grant him that - his grief was only one of the consequences, and it wasn't even one of the worst he would have to face.

"I was so angry about Auschwitz. I thought it was sick, it was so damn wrong. Ugh, there are no words for how I felt. But now I'm just a fucking hypocrite and I'm no better than fucking Germany. Fucking blond hair and blue eyes - I might as well be one of them."

Matthew felt tears swelling up in his eyes. Don't say that, he mouthed, his voice failing him. He clung to Alfred tightly as they both shook. No amount of self-belittlement or criticism from others could undo what he'd done, could not make it right or make him feel better. He would learn that soon.

"I don't want all those people to be dead." I didn't want all those people dead; Matthew knew what he meant. Of course he wanted those people dead; he never wanted the aftermath to linger. And it would linger - Matthew may not have been extremely knowledgeable, but he knew a little. People would be suffering for decades to come.

Did you know that, Alfred?

Perhaps.

Perhaps not.

Matthew knew his brother had a hideously vengeful side. He took a deep breath and willed himself to save some face, if only for a while; Alfred had said he would need him, and need him he did. After a while, the sobs died down into ragged breaths and then his breathing slowed. Matthew continued to sit, staring off into space, absent-mindedly running his fingers through his brother's hair.

The Canadian remembered there was a river that he and Alfred visited all the time when they were younger. There was an eagle that nested in a tree on the other side, and one day, the American decided it would be a fantastic, exciting idea to steal Arthur's rifle and see if he could shoot the bird.

Don't worry, Matty! Arthur's shown me how to use this thing a million times already. I know what I'm doing.

Matthew had stood behind him, timid, afraid for what would happen. He knew the trouble they'd been in if Arthur found out.

Alfred cocked the gun (still a little too big for his teenage arms) and as the eagle landed on a branch, he fired three times. He cackled when he saw he'd got his target, but the laughter died down once he saw the creature fall. It hobbled helplessly in it's own mess, the blood staining the pure white feathers. It screeched in pain and desperation. Alfred dropped the weapon and fell to his knees - he was a shaking, sobbing mess.

The reality of death was a lot more severe that Alfred had hoped.

Matthew comforted him even though he had been so carelessly cruel. He promised not to tell Arthur about the rifle and to make Alfred feel better.

It seemed like that's what he had been doing since that day - hiding Alfred from himself so he could feel better.

* * *

**And now, we're all to blame; we've gone too far from pride to shame**

**We're hopelessly blissful and blind when all we need is something true to believe**

**Don't we all? Everyone, everyone, we will fall**

**'Cause we're all to blame; we've gone too far from pride to shame**

**We're trying so hard, we're dying in vain**

**We want it all with no sacrifice...**

* * *

Gilbert listened as the Trials dragged on. He put his arm around his little brother's shoulders and gave him a lazy smile.

"It's all over now, West."

Ludwig pulled him close and Gilbert could feel his warm tears soaking his uniform. He dared not think about the aftermath of the Trials, what would happen tomorrow. He was content with knowing he could be of some comfort to his brother for now.

* * *

Jarrod sat on the edge of Lyndal's bed and looked out to see the setting sun. He gently ran his fingers over the bandage that covered half of his little sister's head.

"It's all over now, Lynny. We'll be 'right soon."

* * *

Wang Yao put the brush down and stared at the ink, which had started to blur. Or was it his vision that blurred? He shook his weary head and rested his lips and nose against his clasped hands, mouthing a silent prayer. His family had been torn about, but all he could focus on was that it was all over. The torture, the killings. For now, it had stopped.

For now, it was all over.

* * *

Feliciano watched as Antonio and Lovino held onto one another for dear life, speaking their separate languages to one another. _Ti amo; Te amo_.

Were they so different?

In each language around the world, words were said, pronounced differently, phrases were ordered differently, yet, didn't they have the same meaning?

Italian and German had next to nothing in common, seemingly no words sounded similar, yet Feliciano knew what Ludwig meant when he spoke German - his body, his eyes, his hands, they translated everything.

Were they so different?

Feliciano wondered, since it was all over, would things be the same again? There were so many things he wouldn't be able to come to terms with when (if) he and Ludwig reunited - there were things he wished he'd never known about. His sensitive soul had been injured. Would it ever heal?

In his distant memories, he could see he and Ludwig holding hands. They were carefree, careless. The image had frayed at the edges and it took some time to recognise. Would he ever be able to create another memory identical to that one so he would never forget?

* * *

Kiku Honda looked up into the shadowy sky, his eyes unseeing, his mouth dry, his soul empty.

Why wasn't Wang Yao there? Where have you gone? You taught me how to write, how to behave. Why aren't you here to teach me how to live again?

There was bitter hatred still within his heart, the stinging knowledge of what he'd done. The devastation of the bomb. Had the vanished suffered? Did they feel pain? Were they in a better place?

It was all over now.

* * *

_I saw that a small piece that rested within each one of us had died. _

_Papa kept telling me, kept reassuring himself, that I would always be hesitant, innocent - I wouldn't act on impulse. I wanted to tell him I wasn't as young as I once was. _

_Arthur looked at Alfred with the same eyes that said 'you've grown up', only the meaning had changed. I wanted to tell him that he couldn't have prevented his growth or his previous actions - he could always continue to guide him. Alfred would heed to it someday. _

_Alfred began to function again, but there was something in his manner that told me he was still seeking my approval - he still needed to know I was there for him, that I wasn't disappointed. I wanted to tell him, there would be a part of me that would always be a little disappointed, that I loved him nonetheless._

_As for me...as for me, I'd been struck with a harsh realisation that I'd never had a distressing memory of my family in the back of my mind before. Now, I had one. I had several. Our world had changed, and whether it was for better or for worse I didn't know, but I knew it had changed for good, forever. _

_The horrors that had transpired in those years of warfare would be recorded all around the world, in thousands of history books, written by millions of people, millions of perspectives; a permanent reminder of what nations and the race of humans were capable of when enough betrayal and hate had been poured into their hearts, when they were given the ultimate weapons. _

_As someone once said, history repeats itself -- I fear this. But it is in the strength of nations and human beings that the answer lies, the solution to peace, to love and equality. I find that troublesome, too -- we can choose to wield those things; we have the power to bind them to make something good, but more often than not, we ignore them and take what we can for ourselves, whether we believe (fool ourselves that) it is for the good of others or not. If we cannot change that, history will repeat itself, again and again and again..._

_There are so many things in the world that are worth living for. Family. Friends. Love. Nature. Simply being privileged enough to experience these things. However, I'm not so sure whether the destruction is worth being alive for. How long until the first bomb of the Third World War is dropped? How long until the first victim of the Third falls? _

_How long until we're all gone?_

* * *

**AN: I really do hope this was enjoyable (despite the lack of happiness) - I thought I did alright. I decided that these lyrics would make the perfect epilogue to this - it sort of goes hand in hand with Canada's part at the end.**

**Someday - Celtic Woman**

_Someday, when we are wiser, when the world's older, when we have learned_

_I pray someday we may yet live, to live and to let live. _

_Someday life will be fairer, need will be rarer and greed will not pay. _

_God speed this bright millennium on it's way; let it come someday._

_Someday our fight will be won and we'll stand in the sun and that bright afternoon. _

_'Til then, on days when the sun is gone, we'll hang on if we wish upon the moon._

_There are some days dark and bitter, seems we haven't got a plan, _

_But our prayer for something better, is the one thing we all share._

_Someday, when we are wiser, when the whole world is older, when we have learned_

_And I pray someday we may yet live, to live and one day someday..._

_Someday life will be fairer, need will be rarer and greed will not pay. _

_God speed this bright millennium; let it come if we wish upon the moon._

_One day, someday soon..._

_Someday soon..._

* * *

**Fin.**

**Preußen - Preussen (ß can also be ss - ß is a harsh 's' sound and I don't think Italy would pronounce it so.****)**


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